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In Public: Liberté, Fraternité
A photographer sets his tripod up and waits
Among various types down here for the sunset;
The unlovely public -- whatever it is creates
Us bungles us.... And no colors as yet;
The scuff ed-up sand shines gray where it is wet.
The place seems idly jostled, by the gazes
And glances of all these folk, their grunts and phrases.
On the bright gray they bulk in silhouette.
And home now, out of the salt atmosphere,
With these things written as I pleased I feel
The doubts crowd in (like a real crowd, watching me
Running along down there), each all too real
And undisguisable deformity
Passing in plain view, in the open here.